And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee. Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bed-clothes of snow; Of that ride that to me was the rarest; Of the something you said at the gate; Ah! Joe! then I wasn't the heiress To" the best paying lead in the state." Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, But, Goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! I'm spooning on Joseph-heigh-ho! And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it-on Poverty Flat! (FRANCIS) BRET HARTE. FROM "THE DAY IS DONE." fired into music The night shall be filled Shall fold then tent's like the Arabs, |